5/24/16

Disclaimers: I've been feeling a deep need to write everything down, secure myself to the ground with lots of words as I process a pretty complicated period of my life.

I've been dealing with intense and sometimes debilitating post-partum depression since Marie was born. I don't feel it everyday. When I'm happy and making jokes and doing my job, it's real- I'm not pretending. I am happy. Even if I wanted to, I'm not capable of faking anything that well.

But when I find myself in some pretty dark spaces, that's real too. It's important for me to honor both.

I also want it to be real. Part of PPD, for me, is not knowing if what I'm feeling is real. Writing about it gives it a place in my life. I wish it wasn't here, and I wish it was easier, but I'm working through it. I'm working with healthcare providers to find a solution. I'm working on finding a good therapist. I'm working on being honest with myself and others about what and who I can be during this time.

I'm also experiencing lots of joy, happiness, and gratitude. It's a bewildering time to be me, and I want it all written down.

This is a poem about life.

Bath

She cradles
the baby in water, a mountain range creating a soft valley
of skin,

5/23/16

First, I don't binge-watch. I marathon. "Binge" implies a problem, "marathon" connotes endurance. I am dedicated, not lazy, OK PEOPLE??? Anyway. Here are my thoughts while watching "The Path" on Hulu instead of cleaning my house, grading papers, or caring for my children. HERE BE SO MANY SPOILERS I DO NOT EVEN CARE.

1. No one has said it out loud yet, but I suspect one of the "secret" tenets of Meyerism is a devotion to Kinfolk Magazine. All these home-cooked meals enjoyed on back porches with twinkly lights and (mostly) white people wearing wearing thick vintagey sweaters and carrying leather satchels through the woods. But seriously, the Kinfolk/Madewell/Patagonia game here is ON POINT. I would not be surprised if some hipsters try and make Meyerism happen in real life. (Annnd I will probably join.)

2. Alternative theory: It is always fall here. Always. Is this Stars Hollow? Were all the quirky characters on Gilmore Girls not really quirky and just really culty? That's why Rory was so eager to leave, and that's why Lorelei's parents freaked out when she left home- you would to if your teenage daughter went to join a freaky cult. (That I will join if leather boots are included with all the green smoothies. Because of course they drink green smoothies.)

3. Let's talk about junkie-addict Mary. I really like how hot she looks after surviving a hurricane. She looks like an extra from a Taylor Swift video, what with her perfectly tousled hair and cut- off shorts showing just a hint of bum cheek as she crawls around sexily looking for water. Yes, that's clearly what's happening here, she's looking for water. Everyone knows the best way to do that is by crawling around sexily. (Here she is taking a break to stand sexily.)

4. But damn, that coat she wears when she tries to leave the compound? GIRL, GO BACK, YOUR BANGS ARE PERFECT AND THAT COAT IS EVERYTHING. You want to go back to crawling around in booty shorts? No. Stay in the cult with all the beautifully tailored button-down shirts and stunning outerwear.

THAT COAT THO

5. How is everyone making these shrunken grandpa sweater vests look so chic? I am drinking their chambray kool-aid or their artisanal coffee, whatever they are offering. Even the green smoothie juice things.

6. Dude. So this cult is about a bunch of (mostly white) people who are irrationally devoted to an old white guy. They want to educate the "ignorant systemites" and put an end to world-wide corruption and suffering. AS PART OF THEIR MISSION, THEY HELP SOME REFUGEES FROM HONDURAS.

Is this a television show or just a really long campaign ad for Bernie Sanders?

7. People who leave the cult are called "Deniers." See above comment.

8. There is a lot of cultural appropriation here with all the Peruvian/Latin American tie-ins. Because, again, white people.Despite having a "spiritual center" in Peru, no Peruvians apparently are worthy of the light, just worthy of providing beautiful embroidered clothes and "excellent marijuana." I'm not shitting you, that's a line from the show.

All I'm saying is that as an intersectional feminist, I think people of color should have a chance to be hoodwinked by a nonsense religion too. (I'm joking, no one should be hoodwinked.)

9. There is an awful lot of time dedicated to showing people showering in this show. I'm pretty sure it is symbolic (at one point, someone is LITERALLY WASHING THE BLOOD OFF THEIR HANDS) but mostly it is just boring. Mary showers. Ashley showers. Eddie showers. Cal showers. We get it. These are clean cultists.

10. So Heath Ledger is back from the dead, aging backwards and playing the role of Hawk in this series. So that's happening.

No. Seriously. Look.

Hawk:

Heath:

Hawk:

Heath:

It's fine. Everything is fine.

************************SOME SERIOUS THOUGHTS YOU CAN SKIP*****************

*Obviously, given my upbringing, a show about a man losing faith in a small and insular religion is painful to watch. No, I'm not directly comparing Mormonism to Meyerism (although both start with a dude receiving a vision and trying to create an American Utopia and focus strongly on family and marriage and do a lot of outreach for the poor and...oh, wait.) But I think the themes of faith and community and self are pretty universal.

*It broke my heart when Eddie said he didn't know what was "real" anymore, and so he decides to base reality based on "goodness." If he can find evidence of Meyerism doing "good," or at least more good than bad, he'll stay- because helping people change their lives is "real." When he pleads with another character to reassure him, he asks,"We're doing good, right? We're helping people, right?"

* I think that's the basis of most human decisions- to stay in your faith, or your job, even a marriage or friendship. We're doing good right? Is good more important than "true?" How much ambiguity is okay? The show does such a great job showing the complexities of Eddie's doubt. Meyerism does do a lot of good. They are the first to respond with aid after a natural disaster, they support amnesty for refugees, and save a family from being deported by ICE. Wait? Are we talking about Meyerism or Mormonism? Oh yeah, the TV one. On the surface, people in the movement look happy. The corruption on the leadership level doesn't impact the day-to-day lives of the average member. I deal with this question regularly, and I don't have an answer.

*Seeing Eddie's wife Sarah reject him and her son when he admits he doesn't believe hurt too. It's clear that their breakdown happened because of differing priorities. For Sarah, it's Meyerism first, family second. For Eddie, it's family first, Meyerism second. He's willing to stay in Meyerism (to an extent) for Sarah, but she isn't willing to stay in their marriage without complete devotion to the movement. When Eddie tells Sarah, "I am the same person, okay? I love you, I love our family, I believe in the work that we do, but the rest is just f#$%ing fairy-tales," Sarah says, "You are talking about everything, everything in my very soul." Well, I've been there. Spouseman's been there. That's real.

*Sarah's in-laws. The father-in-law is desperate to help rehabilitate Eddie, but the mother-in-law says "he's gone" and that there is nothing they can do. FIL objects- "He's our son-in-law!" MIL: "Not any more." Eddie responds: "There has to be some room for f%$&ing doubt! You'll lose everyone." MIL: "Cowards. Conviction-less people." Or you know, patty-cake taffy-pullers.

*I sympathize with Sarah. She truly believes that Eddie and Hawk won't be with her forever in "The Garden" if they leave Meyerism. In her eyes, she's lost her family, and I understand why she's angry at Eddie for leaving her and taking her son away to die when "The Future" comes. Again, not to put to fine a point on Meyerism and another American-based faith beginning with an "M."

*A lot of people ask me how Spouseman and I navigate my departure from the church with his decision to continue believing. (Albeit non-traditionally.) In the end, despite our differences in belief, our priorities are the same- family first, belief second. We are still navigating what that LOOKS like, on a practical day-to-day basis, and what sacrifices are reasonable for each partner to make. But I'm grateful that the cornerstone of our marriage is the same, and grateful for the sacrifices Dan makes to help our marriage grow.

5/20/16

I spoke at the Exmormon Foundation Conference back in October. I was thinking about my talk today, so I decided to put it here. Some of it may look familiar to people who read what I write regularly, but some of it is new. I wanted a record of a night I felt very scared, (I can hear my voice shaking throughout the audio of my talk, which you can listen to HERE) but also very brave.

I'm proud of who I am. I'm proud of who I am becoming.

“Dear
Mormonism” Ex Mormon Foundation Talk 2015

Hello. My name is Stephanie
Lauritzen. Now don’t anyone get up. Despite the fact that a very pregnant
blonde woman with a Utah accent is standing behind a podium speaking to you
while you eat dessert, this does not mean tonight is secretly a Relief Society
meeting. Do not be alarmed. Here’s how you know this isn’t a clandestine church
meeting:

No man is presiding over
me during this meeting.

That’s it! The fact that I don’t
need a (most likely) elderly white dude to be in charge of my talk is the
number one indicator that you aren’t at an LDS church function! I hope I’ve
eased any of your fears.

I’d like to start by reading to you
excerpts from the letter I wrote to my Mormon heritage. It is apparently the
piece that earned me an invitation here tonight. I’ve written a great many things about
Mormonism, including several riveting blog posts analyzing Mormon contestants
on reality television, and I have no idea why those weren’t taken as seriously
as this letter.

Dear Mormonism,

How
are you? It’s been a while. The Internet tells me you are doing well, building
new temples, writing fancy amicus briefs and trying to figure out what to do
with your women. (Hint: Try priesthood.) Anyway, I know you are very busy, but
I wanted to tell you thank you.

Thank
you for raising me into this inactive misfit Mormon woman. Thank you for making
me a feminist and an LGBT ally. Thank you for giving me the tools to raise an
independent and kind daughter, thank you for giving me the eyes through which I
see the world. I would be ungrateful not to recognize your role in who I am as
a woman, a parent and a spouse. Thank you.

When
you taught me to believe that I am a child of God, filled with divine nature
and individual worth, I believed you. I believed in my divinity enough that
when I grew up, the confines of man-made patriarchy and traditional gender
roles paled in comparison with what I knew. A child of God doesn’t need to
hearken unto her husband or simply nurture while her husband provides. A child
of God sees her worth not just in her uterus, but in her mind. A child of God
understands internalized misogyny, and a child of God knows that short skirts
don’t rape people, and that the women wearing them aren’t “walking pornography.”

More
importantly, you taught me to “love one another,” another song so familiar that
I could never forget this new commandment, even when my days of singing in
Sacrament Meeting were over. So I loved. I loved my way through 2008 and Prop.
8, and your stubborn devotion to “The Proclamation to the Family.”

I
loved even when my fellow church members told me that “when the prophet speaks,
the thinking has been done.” Even when I lost friends, even when I lost my
faith in this church—in you, Mormonism—I never stopped loving. Because you
taught me that “whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it,” and
when I lost my life as an active Mormon, I found myself as an ally, activist
and a friend. And when more people find themselves, we save not just ourselves,
but the “least of these,” especially the young LGBT people who may have
otherwise been lost to suicide and hate crimes and dehumanizing legislation
rooted in fear.

Thank
you, Mormonism, for teaching me about my pioneer ancestors, who faced an undue
amount of persecution for believing differently from their neighbors and
friends. Those guilt-inducing lessons on genealogy taught me that I have
defiance and strength written into my DNA, because if my ancestors could leave
their homes to chase a promised land, I can leave my home—your home,
Mormonism—in search of a more egalitarian and loving Zion.

Mormonism,
I’ve spent my life listening to that still, small voice, hoping that I will be
brave enough to listen to the promptings of the spirit, and to follow what it
teaches me. I continue to listen, because you taught me that listening to that
voice inside me will protect me from evil, especially that tricky sort of
meanness that “calls evil good and good evil.” I listen and I know that benevolent
sexism, the type that would put me on a pedestal and tell me I’m too pure to
get my hands dirty with power, is wrong. I listen, and I know the cruelest evil
is that which calls bigotry “religious liberty” and hurts others in the name of
God. And when I begin to doubt my new faith, when the siren call of the
community I lost and the comfort of fitting in seem inviting, and when I long
for the approval of my peers, I do as Uchtdorf tells me, and I “doubt my
doubts,” and then I “stop it.” I am a child of God, who loves one another, and
listens to the spirit.

Remember
when you taught me about the Anti-Nephi-Lehies, the heroes of The Book of
Mormon who made a promise with God never to go to war again and then buried
their weapons? They preferred death over a broken promise, and they taught me
about the value of sacrifice. I remember them because I too have buried my
weapons; I buried my homophobia, my own self-taught brand of sexism and my
fear. I buried them and I will not raise them again, even if it means I stand
outside the doors of the temple the day my sister gets married.

I
expect you see me as a monster, a Frankenmormon, an unholy amalgamation of
beliefs that contradict the perfect Mormon woman you envisioned. But I see a
Daniel, who spent her upbringing in the lion’s den of orthodox Mormonism and
came out stronger. You raised me to see miracles everywhere, Mormonism, and I
do. I see miracles when a teenager fights against the Taliban for her right to
an education. I see miracles when Mormons march in pride parades and women ask
for a seat in the priesthood session. I see miracles, and I believe in a world
that will be saved once more by a Messiah- this time the messiah of equality
and fairness and love. This is the world I raise my daughter in, and I see it
with wonder and faith.

So
thank you, Mormonism.

Thank
you for giving me the tools I needed to leave you, and start a new life.

In many ways, I don’t
particularly identify with the title of “ex-Mormon,” no more than I identify as
an “ex-homophobe,” or an “ex-apologist for gender discrimination.” I respect
the decision many of you made to identify as ex-Mormon. The beautiful thing
about leaving the church is the freedom to choose your own identity. If
ex-Mormon speaks to you, I honor that. I do tend to prefer the term
Frankenmormon, but that hasn’t really taken off the way I hoped.

Maybe my reluctance to adopt the
identify of “ex-Mormon” stems from all my baggage from my years within
Mormonism itself, in which ex-Mormon was often used interchangeably with
“anti-Mormon.” I don’t feel anti-Mormon, either. I once compared Mormonism to an old boyfriend.
Just because we didn’t work out doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my
life identifying as anti-Steven or Ben’s ex-girlfriend.

But I do, especially as my faith
transition has settled more permanently, feel distinctly that my former church
is very much ex-Stephanie. That’s a convenient way of looking at things, right?
Next time church members say something derogatory about feminism or LGBT
allies, I can dismiss them airily and instruct people not to listen to them, as
they are simply “anti-Stephanie.” Now I
don’t have to listen to any criticism of myself or my actions, because anyone
who disagrees with me is simply against me. This logic seems to work within the
church community. By the way, if you don’t like my talk tonight, you are a Stephpostate.
Why don’t you just leave this dinner?

Ah, the Anti-Stephanies, they leave the woman, but they can’t leave the
woman alone.

It’s a very human desire to want
a formal place in a community. I assume that is why we are all here, regardless
of how we identify ourselves in relation to Mormonism, we all chose to be here
and align ourselves with fellow survivors. We came here wanting something,
whether it was to learn new information about our past, or receive inspiration
on how to proceed with our futures, or simply to spend a few hours not feeling
so alone.

My decision to speak at tonight’s
dinner reminded me of a passage from Chaim Potok’s Davita’s Harp. In the novel, a little girl named Davita is raised
by parents who both abandoned the religious upbringings of their childhoods. In
many ways, Davita feels lost in the world, and like all of us, seeks stability
and community. One day, her Uncle Jacob tells her a story about a gray horse:

“There was a horse that lived in
a narrow valley at the foot of a tall range of mountains. This was a young
horse, a beautiful horse, gray in color, all gray, even its eyes and mane and
hooves and tail were gray. The grayness had about it a special quality: it
glowed with a warm, soft light…A young, strong, gray horse, shining as it
galloped about during the day, shining as it stood asleep during the night. A
very beautiful horse.”

“In the mountains along the
valley lived a herd of black horses. These were powerful creatures who always
went racing about in the gulleys and crevices and along the shoulders of the
hills…They were entirely black… the black was a deep black, with no glow, no
light, a flat, strong black, like a night without moon or stars. Sometimes it
stormed in the hills and the gray horse would see the black horses running in
the rain and outlined against the sky when lightning lashed. They were awesome
seen like that, running in the lightning and the rain.”

“The little valley where the gray
horse lived emptied into a broad sandy plain. Here lived another herd of horses
that grazed peacefully in the oases that grew out of sand watered by
underground streams. White was the color of these horses, a white that hurt the
eyes. Every part of them was white-their eyes, manes, their tails, their
hooves. Pure, clean, dazzling white. On dark nights their whiteness was seen
for miles, each horse a pulsing glow of light.”

At first, Davita’s Uncle Jacob
tells Davita the story about the three types of horses, and lets her decide who
she is in his imaginary universe.

I imagine if you are here at this
dinner tonight, you are here in part because you are also gray horses, or once
were.

The thundering testimonies and
absolutism of our fellow black horses may have awed you, but also frightened
you with their power to hurt and to maim. Maybe you tried to fit in with the
black horses, but failed and felt the sharp beating hooves on your shoulders
when you couldn’t stay with the herd. How many gray horses are lost after
refusing to comply with the dictates of the herd?

Perhaps you were once comforted
by the purity of the white horses, with a clear and simple answer for
everything, and with no desire to leave the oasis. Despite the recent appointment of three new
Caucasian apostles to church leadership I’ll avoid the temptation to make too
many jokes about race. But maybe it was comforting to be surrounded by people
who believed all the same things. How many of us once felt secure knowing that
the “church was true,” and that no matter where we traveled we could find
people like us in any local ward building?

But we were never black or white
horses, and like the horse in Davita’s
Harp, we knew we were different. Later, Davita’s uncle tells her the fate
of the gray horse.

“As the years went by, [the gray
horse] began to feel more and more disturbed by the thought of being forever
between the light of the peaceful white horses, and the darkness of the
powerful black horses. He did not understand why living that way should disturb
him; but he knew that it did.

He was lonely. Perhaps that was
the reason for his unhappiness. There is no feeling more terrible than
loneliness, no feeling worse than the sensation of being locked inside your own
heart. And so one day, he decided to leave his little valley and go off in
search of other gray horses like himself.”

One of my biggest fears when I
began my transition out of the church was my fear of loneliness. I knew what it
felt like to be locked inside your own heart. Anyone who endures the process of leaving the
church recognizes the suffocating feeling of realizing Mormonism isn’t
sustaining you anymore, but feeling trapped and betrayed by their own heart-
unable to break free from the fear of isolation and ostracization that comes
from leaving the faith tradition of your childhood.

I worried I wouldn’t know how to rebuild my
life or my identity without the structure or guidance of the LDS church. I
worried that my inability to be a black or white horse represented some
inherent personality flaw. So naturally, I decided to wear pants to church, and
I’d tell other people to wear pants. We’d make a day of it! Solution! Maybe if I found enough women like me, I could
find the other gray horses and find a way to navigate a path through Mormonism
without the terrible weight of loneliness breaking my heart each Sunday.

Before I continue, I need to
confess something: I can’t take full credit for Wear Pants to Church Day. It
was a group effort, and looking back, most of the stuff that was good and
effective and thoughtful about Wear Pants to Church day is because other good,
effective, and thoughtful people were behind the scenes doing their best to
manage the shit-show that Mormon Feminists later referred to as the
Pantspocalypse.

I suppose what I can take credit
for is forming the Facebook group behind the event, and for being really angry
at people who consistently told me there was no place for me in the church, and
talking a lot. I am the definition of a social-media slactivist, I guess. I had my friend read this part of my talk. She
reminded me that at the time, Wear Pants to Church Day was bigger, and more
liberating than I’m describing it. It probably was. All I know is that the
church I had loved, and had dedicated my life to, was strangely silent as the
death threats, the irate emails and countless phone-calls, and outraged
messages poured into my life and gutted my soul. I knew that asking women to
take a stand, to wear a visual symbol of their questions, and even their
discontent, was risky. I also knew it had the potential to be empowering and
meaningful.

To continue my comparison to the
horses in Davita’s Harp, I already
knew I could never be a white horse. Grazing peacefully is not something I am
capable of doing. But with Pants, for a very small moment, I had a degree of power
and influence, and whether they agreed with me or not, people were listening to
me. It felt good to be a gray horse with the ability to command power like a
black horse.

At the end of his story, Davita
asks her uncle if the gray horse ever found other horses like him.

“No. He is no longer looking.”

“What happened to him?”

“He searched for a long time and
could not find another gray horse. He returned to his valley.”

“Is that where he is now?”

“No. He decided one day to join
the black horses in the mountains. One night during a terrible storm he was
struck by lightning. The lightning turned burned him black, all black. He was
killed.”

Sorry. That is a horribly
depressing story. Thanks Chaim Potok! I believe Sue told me my talk was
supposed to be light-hearted and funny. I am terrible at being funny on demand.
Go eat more dessert! This isn’t a church
meeting, but you are absolutely allowed to continue self-medicating with sugar
if you feel sad.

Anyway, over the years many
people have told me how meaningful and important it was for them to wear pants
to church. They have found the other gray horses in their lives and
congregations, and they’ve found a balance between peace and power that allows
them to remain in a very beautiful valley of Mormonism. I see them making the
church a better, safer, kinder place. I think this is really wonderful. I’ve
learned I don’t have any business telling people what they should wear to
church, or how they should navigate their faith.

But for me, Wear Pants to Church
Day was a bolt of lightning. It forced me to realize that despite the beautiful
things I learned from Mormonism: love, empathy, conviction, strength, going
back to Mormonism wasn’t the right place for me. I’d die there, spiritually and
emotionally. It isn’t for me. For a long time, this felt like a second failure.
I failed as a Mormon, and a Mormon activist. Maybe there truly was something
wrong with me. I felt charred and blackened.

So I don’t know how I identify in
relationship to Mormonism. Nothing feels right. But maybe that is my problem.
As long as I continue to try and identify my soul in relation to a faith that
no longer speaks to me, I’m denying myself the opportunity to see my worth
simply for what I am. I am a good partner, a good Mom, a hard-worker and a
decent friend when my introvert tendencies don’t manage to convince me that
ignoring phone calls and text messages is socially acceptable

.

When I couldn’t attend my
sister’s temple wedding a few years ago due to my heathen ways, lots of people
were very sad. I like making people happy. It was hard to let them down. But in
a strange way, it helped me recognize something important: This isn’t my problem. It’s not my fault that
the LDS faith doesn’t see me the way I see me. If being a good partner, a good
Mom, a hard-worker and a decent friend aren’t enough, it’s not my fault. It’s
okay. I am not missing out on being a good person by not being Mormon, but the
church is certainly missing out on having a good person as a member.

It was worth it to wait outside
the temple. To quote Mark Twain’s Huck
Finn when he decides to leave the South rather than be raised by people who
won’t love his friend Jim as he does- “All
right then, I’ll go to hell.”

That’s admittedly what it felt
like the first few years after I left Mormonism. I know many people here might feel the same
way. Even when I knew Mormonism wasn’t right for me, for a long time I wondered
if Mormonism would ever stop haunting me. I connected deeply with a poem by
Nikki Giovanni titled “Alone.”

I can be

Alone by myself

I was

Lonely alone

Now I’m lonely

With you

Something is wrong

There are flies

Everywhere I go.

Every conference talk criticizing those who doubt, or a friend telling
my husband how “sad” it was that I no longer went to church, every
micro-aggression felt like another buzzing fly. I was still lonely. I may not
have been trapped in my own heart anymore, like Davita’s gray horse, but I was
just as lonely without Mormonism as within it. There were flies everywhere I
went. I read about PTSD associated with leaving one’s religion. I felt very
much the weight of a series of emotionally traumatic events weighing me down. Even
now being inside a church building makes me feel anxious. I sit and look at
people who seem nice and friendly, and I know many of them are. I know lots of
nice Mormons. A Mormon guy has managed to knock me up not once but two times.
But I also know it was Mormons that told me I should leave the church, that I
was an unwelcome disgrace, and in the most extreme case-someday someone like
the person sitting next to me in the
chapel should come and shoot me in the face. So I get nervous at church. I tend
to sweat through my shirt uncontrollably. It’s all very glamorous, the life of a maybe
ex-Mormon.

But after my sister’s wedding, I
drove home from her reception on a beautiful May evening full with the
realization that not carrying a temple-recommend wasn’t an indicator of my
value. I am grateful now, for that experience. I am grateful every time I
survive an attack on my soul’s worth, which seems to happen surprisingly often when
you leave the church. Every day I grow a little stronger.

Leaving Mormonism
allows me to watch myself grow up again, this time with a little more
knowledge, wisdom, and strength- things I didn’t have growing up as a Mormon youth.
That’s some crazy Benjamin-Button type shit right there. I get to grow up
again. I get to see the world through new eyes and discover exactly what it is
I believe. I can reject that which I
find harmful and poisonous, instead of trying to slowly build up immunity to
toxins, trying to endure to the end. I don’t have to wonder why Mormon God doesn’t
seem to care very much for women like me; I don’t have to feel broken and wrong
when I don’t match up with Mormonism’s definition of femininity.

Now when I make mistakes, I start
over, and I grow up again. I learn again. I don’t spend my life trying to fit
into a one-size-fits-all definition of goodness. I may have given up any hopes in reaching the
Celestial Kingdom, but I traded in an eternity of hearkening, baby-making and
polygamy for a lifetime of making my own choices, and raising my own soul.
Perhaps most importantly, my heart doesn’t break every Sunday, and I feel so
glad.

Long before Disney created Elsa
and her anthem beloved by toddlers everywhere, e.e. cummings wrote a poem
called “let it go.” I promise it is better than the Frozen version, and it won’t be stuck in your head all night.

let it go – the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear

so comes love

However
you identify, or do not identify with Mormonism, what I see here, and what I
have experienced in our community is love. People willing to deal with the
flies buzzing, the black and white horses, all of the sadness and hurt, every
lonely Sunday, all in order to give love a bigger space in our hearts. That
sounds very sentimental. I generally don’t like sentimentality, or broad
declarations regarding the human experience. But I thought it was worth
mentioning. An ex-Mormon isn’t an anti-Mormon. It isn’t a bitter person who
can’t leave the church alone. In my experience, an ex-Mormon is a person who is
willing to give up all their preconceived beliefs: about the Book of Mormon,
about our history, Joseph Smith, and even church leadership. We give up the broken vows, the false friends,
the small and the big. We give these things up; we let the go, and in return, make
room for love. We make room for a love
of self, a love for the outsiders in our communities, a love of shopping on
Sunday, and most importantly, a love for one another.

That’s
my talk. I have tremendously unmediated Attention Deficit Disorder and this is
the longest period of time I have ever spent talking about one thing. I hope
you enjoyed it, even though I told the depressing horse story. I always like to
close my talks in the name of my family. So in the name of Stephanie, Dan,
Clara, and fetus Lauritzen, Amen.